The Best Way to Travel and One More Time to Live
by Jilly-chan
Summary: AU, Heero was adopted into the Kushrenada inheritance. At boarding school he meets Trowa, who is avoiding his own familial obligations. Then their fraternal friendship is interupted by a new challenge, love. Ch. 1 Boys, Ch. 2 Girls
1. The Best Way to Travel

The Best Way to Travel By Jillian Storm  
  
(Disclaimer: In a fit of summer passion, I guess I'm entering a wave of writing rather consistently. I'm sure it has nothing to do with my roommate going to England for a week and leaving me the apartment to myself. I'm sure it has nothing to do with being rather bored kicking around the dishes and wondering why there's no one else besides myself to wash them. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I can watch hours of anime without feeling guilty in the slightest for hogging the television. This is a Gundam Wing fic exploring some alternate pairings I don't use to often, but have enjoyed reading at one point or another. *cheers for alternate pairings* Of course, this is alternate reality. I like cannon, but AU is the spice of life. Characters not mine. All the other trouble, I claim.)  
  
Heero:  
  
When I was adopted, my father gave me a new name. It's my first happy memory. The unexpected experience of being snatched from the make-shift orphanage and being taken home in his automobile. The first time I'd ever had such a luxury. I remember caressing the seat in wonder, then glancing outside of the vehicle to watch the street shops and houses, the entire city disappear behind us. On either side of the dirt and gravel road waved an ocean of deep summer green grasses, fields of corn broken by side roads, occasionally dotted by trees. The sky blue. The sun warm. I was seven.  
  
Then, before the sun could sink much more than to turn the sky a rich crimson orange, he had turned to me. Now I wonder how nervous he must have felt. Accepting me, a dark, brooding young boy. A boy who's parents had been killed in the bombings. A boy who had only just begun to speak, and then only in one or two word phrases. Mostly, negative or affirmative guttural intonations. How of all those children had he settled on me?  
  
Then I had felt the machine beneath me shift and slow. Nervous, I gave him a panicked look. He was still holding the wheel to steer. His left hand reaching down to maneuver another lever. Vividly, even now, I could see the determined set to his jaw. The way his light brown hair was combed back properly, only a few pieces having been blown forward.  
  
"Son," I remember the tremble of pleasure at that word. I might have been quiet and a touch disagreeable, but I was not completely without dreams and desires. He also must have felt that confident joy of defining our relationship from then on, his voice, strong then, imprinted itself into my affections. "Welcome home. From now on, your name will be Heero. Heero Yuy."  
  
Walking hand and hand, he led me from that magnificent vehicle toward the country estate that I would learn to call my home. Somehow, it had escaped the cruelties of the war, unlike the city that still bore scars and rubble. The impression of a flawless house, with a full porch, pillars, more windows than I could count, steps, flowers, and at the door, a woman.  
  
My mother to be. My mother. Her hair was honey colored and long, near her shoulders. I loved her immediately as she took my other hand and then pulling me free from my father embraced me. She had fallen to her knees and wept. Later, I learned she had not come for me herself because she had vowed never to set foot into the ruined city again. Her tears of guilt and eager love made my cheeks wet. I had wiped at my face using the back of my hand, uncomfortable with what I only saw as sadness.  
  
"He's perfect, Treize." My mother had yet to let go of my hand, but she stood tall. Regal. Angelic. Beyond my comprehension, yet perfect to me.  
  
My father patted my head.  
  
And while from that point I loved them unconditionally and they were good to me. It never occurred to me to think the name they gave me strange. At least, not until it was pointed out to me.  
  
Trowa:  
  
After going to private schools for all of my life, being sent to boarding school seemed like just another opportunity for my parents to push me away. Which was fine. I did better losing myself in the crowd of school boys rather than accommodating the aristocracy that fawned before our family name. As long as I didn't use the power behind my surname with my classmates, they were friendly enough. Being heir to the Barton estates could have taken my social standing to the highest levels. But my intention was to skirt the shadows the best I could. I was planning to run away, join the circus, hop a boat to America. Anything except put on a pressed suit, listen to another poorly played piano forte, or smile sickly at whatever docile creature had decided to attach her prospects to my own.  
  
Sitting in first class, I had taken a seat near the back. Deciding on a window seat. That room faced the front lawn which was rather attractive. To impress the parents who were shelling over their finances to make the campus look prestigious. Those of us who were congregating were first year boys. Near the front, an anxious pale blond boy was scribbling notes frantically from a text book. I recognized the cover, more Wheelock's Latin. I was supposed to have that book somewhere in my bags, but I wasn't going to take it out until it was absolutely necessary.  
  
Then attracted by the new movement, I saw another boy take the seat next to mine. Another back row lurker. I appraised his impeccable uniform, his books appropriately stacked in front with his hands lingering on either side. Perfect posture. Combed, but boyish brown hair. Stern forehead, long nose, pointed chin.  
  
"What's your name?" I don't speak much as a rule. But besides over- achiever academic in the front of the room and this dark newcomer, I've recognized every other face so far.  
  
He glanced over at me, I'd say relief washed over his features. Causing his dark eyes to soften somewhat, his brow evened, his words eager, "Heero Yuy."  
  
I run that name through my exhaustive lists of who is who that my mother insisted that I know. One could never be too prepared to meet someone famous and influencial.  
  
"Heero Yuy?" I paused, "Like the war hero? You're named after the war hero?"  
  
"Named after?" His ease gone, the self-proclaimed Heero Yuy pulled back into his seat. Apparently he hadn't been asked this before. Which I found odd.  
  
"Heero Yuy died rather young, just after taking office. That's part of the reason the war hit our portion of the country so hard." I sound a bit like a textbook. That's a side effect of being repressed by a family name. "There were no other Yuys. That Heero Yuy had a sister, but she was assassinated within a year of her brother. Her home was broken into and their soldiers not only took her prisoner, but her children as well. They didn't make it to the trial."  
  
"I-I didn't know." His expression hard to determine, somewhere between thoughtful, horrified and realization.  
  
I found it a bit confusing that he wouldn't know. Had he been sheltered his whole life? I could almost hear my step-sister whispering in my ear, "You are so insensitive, Trowa Barton."  
  
Brushing that feeling aside, I asked, "Who are your parents?"  
  
Hesitantly, almost as if the answer he had could again be a wrong answer. Or a challenged answer. Or worse. "Kushrenada. Treize and Une Kushrenada."  
  
I went through my mental index. Interesting.  
  
I refrained from commenting. He settled with his back against the seat, properly with both feet stationed on the floor in front of him. Knees at ninety degree angles. My legs are too long for that, and I've never accomplished anything like comfortable posture. He might have been relieved that I left him alone after that. Or not.  
  
His dark brows expressively pulled together.  
  
Heero:  
  
Fall passed. Then as Christmas approached, I knew that my mother would come for me. Or send one of her representatives. Since Father died, she was hard pressed to manage his estate. Some distant cousin or other relative had put out a claim on the home and Mother had put together some legal papers with the help of her friends, the Peacecrafts. Everything was to come to a conclusion around Christmas time. A wearying prospect to face as the holidays approached. I wanted to be home, but, at the same time, the solitude of school had appealed to me.  
  
The only one who really spoke to me much was a foreign student. Duo Maxwell made a point to call out hello to me or include me in conversation when I was near. We were not friends, but his extroverted efforts were not spared me.  
  
Besides that, I had no other encounters. Besides the first day, when snobbish Trowa Barton had inquired about my parents. Truly, I had little cause to call him snobbish; although, it was a characteristic commonly acknowledged by the rest of our grade. He wasn't called a bastard, like Chang Wufei. Nor was he labeled a teacher's pet, like poor Quatre Winner. But the tall, aristocrat's aloof behavior won him some animosity. It was his quietness that allowed him to fly under their shunning outrage.  
  
And I wouldn't suspect they didn't think I was an enigma as well. But no one else questioned my name. No one else really spoke to me at all. Which suited me well.  
  
I used the freedom to study and stayed in the upper third of my class. I also used my time to write letters back to Mother. As an adopted son, there was little I could do to help her. It was the occasional guilt I felt over her efforts to secure my inheritance that drove me to maintain a consistent correspondence.  
  
Why did she strive so hard on my behalf?  
  
The awakened fear. I am not a Kushrenada. They had not even given me their name.  
  
Trowa:  
  
Holiday came and went. Then summer. The boredom of routine and the lackluster professors making it seem painfully long even as the days passed more quickly than the light of thunder's bolt.  
  
I made a passing comrade in Chang Wufei, who was always good for a barb at the teacher or some of other faculty's expense. For the most part, we were the elite and academic foreground of the school. Wufei proud of the fact. Myself, I suffered from indifference. The lessons were dull at best. I was always well ahead on the texts. My parents had paid too well for tutors to distract me and keep me occupied during the summer. That way I had all too reasonable excuses to avoid their gatherings and outings.  
  
The best part of the day became athletic clubs. I played a fair game of rugby. However, some of the fellows, lead by the infamous Duo Maxwell had procured some different sport. Football, or soccer as Maxwell insisted on calling it, was the unofficial favorite of our class. By third year, we had a steady intramural system unsanctioned by the athletic department.  
  
Maxwell was a monster on the field. He would roar with rage, delight, sarcasm, fear, and excitement. That buffoon amplified everything. He captained a steady bunch including fourth year twins Philip and Nichol Walker. Philip was a good natured boy, but a fast offense on his feet. Nichol played the goal and did he turn red with fury if anyone challenged his ability to defend their end. Maxwell had also convinced Yuy to play that year. Yuy practiced with them sometimes. I saw it as I would walk from the school library back to the dorms. It was a hike across the entire campus with a good view of the playing fields. Maxwell and Yuy would kick the ball back and forth. Dribbling it with their feet and making passes to steal from each other.  
  
Their team called themselves The Taurus Specials. And with Yuy's strategy, they intimidated, untied and ran over Oz, Alex's fairly steady team.  
  
I played with Wufei of course. We were a more slender team that had managed to undermine Maxwell's bulkier lads with our footwork. Seeing Yuy flawlessly weave through the Oz ranks might make our game a new challenge.  
  
"Let's all be good sportsmen." They spoke simultaneously, the pre-game ritual as Wufei shook Duo Maxwell's hand. I eyed their players tipping my chin back and putting my hands on either hip. Sizing them up. I might have been of less sturdy stalk than the Walker burliness, but I had filled out fairly well by seventeen. I stood well above the others and caught the eye of Heero Yuy.  
  
Being tall, it was easy for me to see him. Easy for him to watch me back. Nothing about his gaze was abashed, his eyes becoming more narrowed and slanted in the last years. Hinting at some unknown Oriental heritage. Of course, I hadn't been the first to think so. But one didn't insult someone with the glare that Heero Yuy could protect himself with. Yuy left well enough alone. I don't think I'd spoken to him at any length, including our conversation the first day of classes.  
  
Philip Walker was taking the ball down the side, Wufei at his heels. I watched, playing offense. Hoping for the chance to put the more disagreeable Nichol in his place. Yuy about seven feet from me. We don't talk. The sun is behind clouds today, keeping a brisk breeze around our bare limbs. I impatiently shifted from one foot to another.  
  
Then, ready, I'm passed the ball. I hear Maxwell's roar over the busy sound of the wind. Keeping the game with me, I examined the field. Planning on taking a cut over to the right, attaching Nichol from there.  
  
In a blur, I found myself running forward with no purpose. Twisting around, but stillv running the wrong way, I saw Heero passing Maxwell the ball and the action was again in the hands of our defense. Heero hovered midway again.  
  
"What the heck." I mumbled to myself. I hadn't seen him coming, but I'd be more prepared next time. I had known the guy was good, but never had imagined what it felt like to be robbed by him.  
  
That game I remember well because of how painful it became. We started to pile up our offense as soon as the ball crossed my way. Giving better passing opportunities, but somehow Yuy saw those as simply an additional hurdle to his perfected style. When he wasn't interrupting my drive, he was cutting off Wufei, passing the ball back to Philip or Duo or some other mediocre player on their team. They all were getting plenty of play time, except Nichol who was rather bored and so began to mock our feeble attempts against their newest player. I glowered at Heero midway.  
  
His practice clothes hanging on him, except sticking darkly to sweat. The atmosphere's humidity putting a layer of shine across all of our brows, into our necks. Regardless, his kept his cool. He shrugged.  
  
Then an impish grin reached across his cheeks into those unusual eyes, a pleased and delighted expression without offer of excuse.  
  
Then, inexplicably, I figured I liked Heero Yuy alright.  
  
Heero:  
  
By the time of graduation, I'd learned what it was to be a graceful loser. I saw it every time that Trowa Barton played against our team in football. He started to laugh even before I would press in and take the ball. It became a bit of a game in of itself, he would try a new strategy, which I would allow just long enough to figure it out and work against it. I think the only game Barton's team won was in late November when I was taken out with a bad case of pneumonia. Which I wouldn't have had if I hadn't persisted to play every weekend up and until the campus nurses forbid me from leaving my room.  
  
"Glad to know that even you aren't indestructible, without weakness." Trowa had said at lunch one day that spring. We'd taken to spending a fair bit of time together. He was a touch proud of his intellectual abilities, but I let it pass. He had a fairly good sense of humor once he got past his personal walls of self-defense. Not that I could fault him. I had them also.  
  
The last semester we even fell into rooming together. An infestation of rodents took over one of the smaller fourth year buildings, and the administration moved those of us living in Sandrock Hall over to Heavyarms. Trowa had found me as soon as rumors were spreading of a mass exodus.  
  
"If I bloody have to share my space with somebody, I'd rather it was you."  
  
"That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard." And it was a done deal.  
  
We made a strange two-some, but it suited us well. The reluctant son of a prestigious family and the unlikely adopted son of the scandalous Kushrenada estate. My mother had succeeded in settling the claim Marimeia Kushrenada tried. At that point, my inheritance seemed legally certain. Not that either of us were reliant on that heritage for our identity. And that mutual quest for finding ourselves gave us the understanding we needed.  
  
"So what are you planning on doing with all this education?" Trowa asked me one night the week before graduation. We'd been given our robes and caps early and I was still trying to figure out how to get mind to fit. It was sizes larger than I needed, but, with the strict rules about how the hat must be worn, I couldn't seem to manage it.  
  
"Education? What education?" I said, frustrated. "I swear, my head has *shrunk* since I got here."  
  
Trowa laughed once at that. His laughter was queer like that. After we started to converse a bit, no where near as much as Maxwell liked to pry, but we did begin to feel comfortable in our own fashion. Trowa barely acknowledged comments, even if they amused him. But with few people around, and those there ones he trusted, Trowa had just an awful sharp bark that was brief and almost as loud as anything Duo managed on the field. I shouldn't talk, it's not like I laughed often. And only at the most bizarre and most twisted of unfortunate events.  
  
I had laughed the most when we got back from Christmas holiday. Wufei had brought back a container of frozen raspberries. An exotic treat, which he refused to share. With relish, he stole sugar from the lunch room and ate them constantly. Slowly. Making them last and taunting us until we tired of it.  
  
Trying to make his humor continue as long as possible, Wufei, near the end of the supply, had taken to biting them in half. Savoring one portion, while holding the other half in front of his nose for us all to see. After about three minutes of doing that, relishing our groans and weariness with the show, Wufei's eyes had crossed over his slanted nose. Focusing on the raspberry. Widening. And almost immediately gagging in reflex.  
  
Pulling and tearing each berry, inside each and every one, he found perfectly frozen bugs.  
  
I don't know which startled him more, realizing that the berries had been bad. Or the laughter that bellowed from my lungs as I held my head back like a lunatic. I even managed to startle Trowa with that one.  
  
"I'm sure I don't want to go back home if I can help it." Trowa continued. "There's always university. I could bore myself with a few more years there, while avoiding the latest fascination of my parents. Some so-called 'duties of the son'."  
  
I folded the rim of my hat under, so that it fitted better. Next trying to fashion what might look like a point if no one examined it too closely.  
  
"I wish they'd just let Cathy have the whole Barton legacy. She's more suited to it."  
  
"Would your family let you take a year off?" I set down the hat, giving up on it for now. I still had a week.  
  
"What do you mean?" Trowa sat upright, eager for any opportunity by that point.  
  
"Mother is sending me to study with a friend of my father's." Noticing the distaste on Trowa's features, I clarified, "Not studies like Latin and History. More practical, political and military. Strategy without the immediate social pressures. Some, but it won't be direct like at home. Simply maintaining our dignity and playing general while we're at it."  
  
"General?" Trowa didn't look convinced, "I'd like to break free from the Barton household longer if I can, but I was thinking of being an academic. Not a soldier."  
  
"I don't want to be a soldier either," I prompted, suddenly knowing that I wouldn't mind going so much myself if he came with me.  
  
I could use a friend, especially in an environment that would not lend itself to my invisibility.  
  
  
  
A quickly drafted letter persuaded his parents to the advantage of one year set aside from his immediate studies and the next chapters of our lives waited to be written.  
  
End chapter one.  
  
*** Author's Note: Okay, well the boys have had their fun. Next, enter the girls. Coming soon: One More Time to Live. 


	2. One More Time to Live

One More Time to Live By Jillian Storm  
  
(Disclaimer: This is the second half of The Best Way to Travel. While the first section was about Heero and Trowa becoming friends, this chapter will deal with their characters post high school. Of course, chapter two deals with their relationship with the opposite gender. Also, I filtered this chapter through the girls' points of view, so the narrative voice and subject is a touch different. In addition, this is AU and the relationships are not canon (I wanted a challenge). By the way, I'm mad at the universe for saying that Trowa and Catherine are siblings. *sighs* Maybe some day I'll have the inspiration to write a story where they find out that it was all a big misunderstanding . . . *snicker*. In the meanwhile, thank you for reading and enjoy.)  
  
**By the way, to those who reviewed The Best Way To Travel-thank you! I appreciate your encouragement. I sometimes forget that other people actually read these. ~sweatdrops~  
  
***  
  
Dorothy:  
  
It's always best to be well informed. Both of your enemies but also your friends and acquaintances, just in case they become enemies. In life, everything is a battle and the secret to winning then is not only strength but also gathered intelligence. Understanding your opponent.  
  
I was born during war, and that summer, years later and eighteen, I had been living with my grandfather. My own father had died brilliantly in a military charge against the enemy's united front. He had called his men to him and against incredible odds had practically pulled them up the hillside. I had listened with relish while a survivor of that endeavor recounted the story to me. Letting me witness, by some degree, the valor that had consumed my father to his last breath. The stunning sacrifice. While most of his unit had perished, the victory ultimately came to completion.  
  
I won't shed tears for him. He would not want me to. My grandfather reassures me as much.  
  
I had been sitting in the study when our visitors arrived. The two young men that were going to be studying under my grandfather's instruction. I set aside my book and in one sweeping motion, stepped up next to the sturdy oak door. It was the sort that slid in and out from the wall, so I pulled it out enough to hide the better part of my figure, wrapped my fingers around the edge, and peeked into the hall for a first look.  
  
It wasn't unusual for my grandfather to mentor gentlemen. Usually, they were fresh from the university and uncertain as to their particular field. These two were younger, my own age in fact. New graduates from some elitist private school. The first had to be Trowa Barton. I had met him once and there forward I considered him one of the rudest individuals I had ever come across. We'd engaged in a conversation about the proper place of women in government, and he'd disengaged himself from the conversation part way through saying at that point it was beneath him to continue. That was approximately three years prior, but I still remembered the fury like electric wire pulsing through my veins.  
  
He was taller, still lean but growing into the image of his father. Both men with little cause to be proud. The Barton money was old, and clearly not earned by the current generations.  
  
What amused me the most about it, both Trowa and his father had the same strange weakness for women. Which, I had uncovered later with some wicked glee, all things considered. Mr. Barton had married his deceased older brother's wife. His sister-in-law. Of course, Trowa's own mother had died in childbirth. The elder Barton and his second wife had no children of their own, which left a rather touchy tangle as to who should inherit the Barton estate. Trowa, or his elder step-sister/cousin, Catherine-the direct descendent of the oldest son.  
  
One must love the tangled mess the aristocracy can create.  
  
The other boy was a stranger. His demeanor rather reserved, but in a different way than Trowa's cold mannerisms. His presentation was more that of a self-conscious soldier. Taken from his artillery unit and told to entertain royalty instead.  
  
I listened closely for his name, catching it and almost thinking I had misheard.  
  
Catherine:  
  
Trowa's letters started to come more frequently closer to Christmas. He spent that year in the country with the Catalonia's, a family that I actually knew little about. Except that they did come in town to seek entertainment at some of the holiday parties. They were an older couple, having lost all of their sons in the war; still, they did shelter their only granddaughter, a proud and proper Dorothy Catalonia. I had met her a few years back and found her agreeable enough.  
  
Apparently, however, Trowa could not bear her.  
  
* Cathy, she torments my ears with comments about the statutes of ideal masculinity and follows that with an immediate list of my shortcomings. She is intolerable really. It will be a relief to regain your polite company once more. *  
  
Having reread that complaint more than twice, I accepted that perhaps he missed me as much as I had missed him. He was in all respects my dear younger brother. My uncle marrying my mother when Trowa was almost four.  
  
I was able to see both of them again at the Barton annual Christmas festivities. This was an expected gathering and therefore had to be more spectacular than the previous year to maintain our status. Mother had sent away for exotic, but tasteful decorations from Asian countries. The tree filled with golden baubles and delicate, small origami-cranes, frogs and others.  
  
I had been surveying the servants as they scurried to prevent one potential disaster and then the next. Chuckling a bit, just as I felt familiar arms enclose me from behind. Trowa would cross his arms completely to secure my opposite shoulder, that was how I always knew when it was him.  
  
"You're early."  
  
"Gentlemen are never late." Trowa's voice quipped bitterly as if it were a lesson engrained into his habits. He didn't hold me long, but let me turn and give him a once over glance. He seemed in good health. His skin had lost it's summer shade in favor of a more creamy complexion, but nothing like the almost translucent pale of the woman flanking him.  
  
"Dorothy?" I recognized her immediately from before, but the surly glance she reserved for my brother (so like the one described in his letters) would have revealed her identity regardless.  
  
"Along with her family," Trowa sounded as if he suffered, and I shot him a disapproving look. He should have known better than to actually speak any insult in public, let alone in front of the party in particular. Something about coming back to our house would bring out his most childish immaturities.  
  
"A gentleman would make a proper introduction." Dorothy said slyly, crossing her arms. She moved her head enough to flip her silver-blonde hair back over her shoulders. She wore a full black dress. From the neckline to the front cut of the satin fabric was black netting.  
  
"Yes, Cathy, this would be Dorothy. Her grandparents are still at the door with Father, you will see." Trowa's voice tempered but dry, waving with one hand to each party as they were addressed. Then I noticed his tone take a cheerier slant. "And this is my school chum, Heero Yuy. I must have mentioned him to you."  
  
My eyes settle on the guest in particular. Trowa then letting his arm drop to his side as I met the steady gaze of a rather attractive young man. Mr. Yuy seemed standoffish at first, but I sensed that in fact it was a case of respectful bashfulness.  
  
"Pleased to meet you." Heero said, an interesting figure of indifference between the mutual distaste radiating from my brother and Miss Catalonia.  
  
Dorothy:  
  
I found Catherine, unlike her brother, quite charming. While entertaining the older generation with clever conversation, she managed to oversee the supply of dessert, rearranged the musicians to another corner without disturbing the guests, and placated her agitated sibling.  
  
He, of course, being deficient in every social grace, which vexed me very much. Obviously lacking in the finer points of his upbringing. Undoubtedly some psychological backlash from losing his mother. And not finding his replacement with his father's new wife. His aunt.  
  
He did, however, seem to have attached himself to Catherine very strongly.  
  
The way he might loop his arm through hers or run his fingers through her reddish-brown curls. Watching them dance together had been the worst. Leaning against the wall and imaging that instead of laughing at his comment, that Catherine had pulled out a dagger and cleverly stabbed her obnoxious brother through the gut. Catherine had smitten our Young Master Barton to her every whim in spite of his almighty position on the submission of women.  
  
"Are all social gatherings like this one?" I heard Heero Yuy's comment.  
  
"More or less." I said simply.  
  
In the months that Heero had been staying at our estate, we had shared few words and a respectful distance. A tentative camaraderie began that night as we had stood together and watched Trowa Barton make a spectacle of himself. Yuy, I learned, had been rather secluded from the public eye. His parents preferring to stay put away in their own affairs. I knew somewhat of the Kushrenada household, especially the controversy in the last few years over Heero's inheritance. But I knew full well of Treize Kushrenada's debt to the real Heero Yuy, and this young man who inherited the name and became the Kushrenada heir by chance would be guaranteed all of Treize's fortune. Since that had settled, Heero and his mother had returned to their original lifestyle separate from society when at all possible.  
  
I was suddenly curious, "Have you never danced before, Mr. Yuy?" I purred dangerously, taunting and inquisitive.  
  
If anything, Heero was seldom ashamed, "Not like this. No, I haven't." Following his gaze, I knew he was watching Catherine and Trowa as well. I couldn't quite tell if the iron set of his jaw against his high collar indicated longing or simple determination.  
  
It seemed strange to me that someone with such solemn dignity and honor would associate with Trowa Barton. Heero's behavior was impeccable.  
  
None of us suspected in the least that he had willingly let his heart go captive with one glance.  
  
Catherine:  
  
The days after Christmas that season had been rather temperate and I wasn't surprised to find Heero Yuy wandering through the stables during his brief stay. We didn't keep horses in the city stable of course, since the city had grown beyond the need. Our pets and the rest had been transported to our country home. In the meantime, my uncle had a rather spectacular collection of classic automobiles started there.  
  
"What are you doing here?" I asked, meaning to be polite.  
  
He must have taken it wrongly, because he had gripped a nearby board supporting the stable with a sudden fierceness, "I'm just looking. Curious." His voice was much lower than Trowa's and more deliberate. Comparing him to Trowa was easy. Heero was more broad, a few inches shorter and ruled his dark hair better. As much as Trowa said he trusted me, he would never let me cut his hair into something proper.  
  
"Do you like cars?" I couldn't let him stay so uncomfortable, he was my brother's friend after all. He nodded, once. He didn't say anything else, and I felt obligated to put him at ease. To take care of him.  
  
Glancing around, I found the vehicle I intended and pulling open the door sank inside. "Listen." I called through the window, then pressed my palm against the wheel. With just that little pressure, from under the hood a short series of bugle like notes played their song. "Isn't that incredible?" I added, watching with some satisfaction as his eyebrows lifted in what I intended to be amusement. "This one is called Aries." I let my hand fall outside the window and patted the door.  
  
He crossed to lean in where I sat, "Do it again." He said softly. Not demanding, but a bit insistent. Then listened with closed eyes as I obeyed. Glancing at him, his face closer than before, I saw that, when his eyes closed, he had such dark lashes. The sort that most girls, including myself, dreamed of having. "It's reconstructed." He murmured.  
  
"Reconstructed?"  
  
"That's not the original sound of the horn."  
  
"No?"  
  
Truthfully, I didn't know much about these automobiles. But when he opened his eyes I knew their color. They were very close. Very blue.  
  
"No."  
  
I took a deep breath, and tried not to sound as intimidated, impressed, as I felt. "Alright. Poppa must have changed it."  
  
"Actually, I did."  
  
We both recognized Trowa's voice and saw his silhouette moving to enter the shadows from the brilliant December sunlight. Each step he took made his features easier to discern, adjusting to the darkness. Heero stood upright again and took a step forward before stopping. Trowa turning his gaze from Heero to myself.  
  
"It was the summer before our third year. Father approved of course." He continued forward and opening the door offered me a hand out. I took it and felt surprise at the possessive way he kept it in his. "I was looking for you, Cathy. No one had known where you'd gone off to."  
  
The three of us walked back to the house. Trowa and I chatting amiably about the dinner that Mrs. Po had planned for their farewell back to the Catalonia's for the rest of the winter and spring. Heero keeping step on my opposite side, his boots managing to audibly crunch and snap the leaves remaining from the last fall. Even while Trowa tried to distract me with his conversation, part of me was very aware of each step taken by Heero Yuy.  
  
Dorothy:  
  
One day, two letters came from Catherine. I had puzzled over it at first. Examining the print of the address. Comparing the curl of the 'o' the slant of the 'r' to see if the penmanship was the same. Because one of them was familiarly addressed to her brother. The other was for Heero Yuy.  
  
While I had no ill feelings for either Catherine or Heero, it was an opportunity that I couldn't have ignored. Trying not to curl the envelopes as my fists convulsively tightened with barely restrained enthusiasm, I rounded the hall to find Trowa sitting at the desk in the main study. Pouring himself over the daily newspaper.  
  
I paused, observing him since he hadn't noticed me yet. So intently perusing the articles. Apparently trying to catch up on the latest politics so he could discuss them at length in the evening with my grandfather. He brushed back his light brown hair with both hands, revealing for the first time a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Nearly nineteen and already losing his vision. However, I had suspected Trowa Barton already lost most of his quality insight years ago.  
  
I cleared my throat. He immediately reached for his reading glasses with one hand and, folding them, set them on the table under his innocent looking palm. I allowed him his vanity, and didn't comment . . . on that.  
  
"I have before me," I said slowly, "Two letters. Both from the same party, but going to different recipients. Who, you might ask, are they from?"  
  
"Skip this." Trowa scowled, an expression he never showed anyone else. It made his forehead wrinkle right in the middle, his eyes narrowed, and his lips magnetically closing to clip his words. "What are you trying to get at?"  
  
"I was just curious why your sister would be writing to Heero?" I tilt my head to one side, holding out an envelope at arm's length, making as if to reveal the contents with the aid of sunlight from the window behind him.  
  
"There could be many reasons." Trowa sputtered a bit, apparently not expecting that piece of information. "To thank him for going to the party. Not that you would get one." He added the last, seeming to settle back into his own logic.  
  
I let him believe whatever he wanted to, the moment of doubt was worth the trouble. And the chance to see him-defenses down, reading through those narrow glasses.  
  
Catherine:  
  
Sending Trowa letters became more difficult after he returned to his studies. His were appreciative of having been able to see me again and littered with violent paragraphs bent over the latest outrage instigated by Miss Catalonia.  
  
To be honest, even though he spent our younger years together, our parents sent Trowa to school regularly during the years and then he started in a boarding school at age fourteen. We had only holidays together, and I tried to make them as pleasant for him as I could. He disliked public spectacles, and, on many levels, we protected each other the best we could from speculation about the inheritance. With those conditions, we forged a bond closer and more dear than that of most siblings of ordinary circumstances.  
  
What perplexed me more than my inability to write Trowa, was the first fleeting then ever growing persistent thought to write to Heero Yuy. Although, I had few things in particular I could write about with comfort.  
  
The party. The automobiles, in passing. The weather if I needed to.  
  
But I don't know if I would have ever followed through on the desire, if I hadn't received his letter first.  
  
It was straightforward, expressing gratitude for my generosity both at the event and later in sharing a few details about the Barton collection of cars. Especially the Aries. If that had been all, his letter would have mirrored my own imagined attempt. Except he had gone so far as to close with the line, "I found your company quite agreeable and look forward to seeing you again."  
  
For such an understatement, I understood his intent well enough. My reply then was easy. I only needed to let him know I reciprocated the sentiment.  
  
Dorothy:  
  
I didn't have to say anything more to Trowa about the sudden regularity of the letters between his sister and his good friend because his knowledge of the correspondence was clear. To me of course. Heero was blissful unaware of the suspicious glances and veiled frustration. I happened to pass their breakfast table one morning to see the young lover half-smiling over his aloft coffee cup and reading another paper from the post. The uncharacteristic grin of contentment was not lost on Trowa either, who kept darting his glance feverishly from the eggs on his plate, cut with some ferocity, and his companion.  
  
I have no doubt that Trowa was not completely opposed to the idea of Catherine going to another man. Overall, Trowa was too simple to conceive of any inappropriateness with his blood relation. Nevertheless, I knew of his violent opposition to anything he did not orchestrate or approve.  
  
"How do you wander content while Mr. Yuy makes love with words to your becoming sister?" I passed him in the hall, letting the comment slip. Almost, but not quite, expecting the stern grip of his fingers against my forearm, pulling me back around. My eyes widened. For once, I had actually gained a margin of control over Trowa's inbred restraint.  
  
"What gives you the idea that I mind?" When he finally managed the words through his stumbling lips, I almost pitied him. He really was lost without his sister's undivided attention.  
  
"Am I wrong?"  
  
"Of-of course." He frowned, collecting himself around the lie. Unfolding his shoulders and pulling his chin up a bit. Slipping on his masks once more. Using them to never again betray his agitation.  
  
Masks I was determined to crush under my heel. One by one.  
  
The opportunity came near the end of a wet spring. Trowa had already put in his papers binding his future to the prestigious Luxembourg University, earning his place upon the recommendation of my grandfather. For some unknown reason, my grandfather had taken a strong liking to him. Heero's adopted mother had called him home as she faced a grave illness that perplexed Heero to no end. He would have left immediately if Lady Une Kushrenada had not ordered him to stay where he was.  
  
With Trowa climbing to the top and Heero desperately concerned for his mother, I invited Catherine to the country.  
  
Catherine:  
  
I found myself facing the massive front doors, still bundled in my long grey coat to break the country breeze that cut across miles of fields to blow against my ankles. I would have insisted on coming as soon as I heard about Heero's mother. If I'd learned anything from his letters, he wasn't one to be absolutely forthcoming with his feelings even though he was decisive enough to act on them. Dorothy's invitation came as a surprise, but it was a welcome one.  
  
The automobile that had circled up the drive to deposit me on the Catalonia doorstep pulled away and I felt a mixed urge that wanted to chase after it-- as if coming suddenly had been a mistake. I hadn't seen Heero since we first met, and it would certainly be quite wounding to find that I had misunderstood his intentions. My only comfort then--I would have Trowa to occupy my time.  
  
Before, I had never sincerely entertained the thought of matching myself to a certain gentleman. I had my fair share of admirers during gatherings; although, none as distant or humbly attentive as Heero Yuy. Which made me doubt my feelings even more, because they were not those of a flighty school girl, but something new seeking a more solid, dependable foundation. My thick heeled traveling shoes slid against the gravel of the drive. Up the stairs. I lifted the knocker.  
  
The butler answers, he smiled at me. A bare twitch of his pencil thin lips, when his image is blocked by the jubilant smile of my brother. One of his rare, cheek pushing grins. "Catherine, you look weary." Then he had his arm around my shoulders and he's chatting about the terrible weather as of late then his prospects at school. Once Trowa starts talking, it's hard to get a word in edgewise.  
  
"You goof," I laughed at last, while Trowa caught his breath. He'd pulled me farther in and down the hall. Putting my light gloves away into my pockets, I appraised his health. "I'm fine. You seem lovely. Taller?" I'd managed to keep a few inches on my brother when we were younger, but he'd far surpassed my height by that year.  
  
The response came from the direction of a door behind us. Dorothy said, "Taller, yes. But still struggling to match his increased inches with equal wit." She smiled slyly, only using her muscles on one side. If Dorothy's comments were like this even half of the time, I could see why Trowa would become short with her. He did seem about to respond in kind, and he might have. But I didn't notice.  
  
Instead, I was enchanted by the sudden nearness of the person I most wanted to see.  
  
Dorothy:  
  
The gloomy weather from outside did little to dampen Trowa's enthusiasm upon Catherine's arrival. He'd incessantly found excuses to touch her, leading her with his arm around her shoulders, pressing the small of her back, pinching the folds of her shirt near the elbow. Catherine settled to her own ease, the pale flush of her cheeks turning rosy in the warmth of the house. Outside was still a foul spring.  
  
However, the fun of watching their reactions when Heero walked into the room was priceless beyond everything else. Ignoring Trowa completely, Heero had addressed Catherine directly. Inquiring about her trip, her health, her fine appearance, her last letter, the book she'd been reading. Speaking frankly, almost as if engaged in some detailed topic as when with my grandfather. Only this time completely absorbed with the essence and subject of Catherine. Let it not be said that Heero did not understand his own mission.  
  
For her own part, Catherine's eyes had curled into a smile of relief. Then she held her own as the two of them ignored us completely. Trowa pushing his hands into his pockets. Pulling out his watch as if to glance at the time, then returned it.  
  
"At least, let's all sit somewhere." Trowa interrupted, turning into the sitting room at such an angle away from the other two so that I could see the sparkle of conflict through his gaze. "You must be tired, Cathy."  
  
"Not anymore really." Catherine spoke to her brother once more, following, and stealing a glance to see Heero right next to her with his shoulders set confidently. Heero trusted his emotions and followed his without doubt.  
  
Trowa sank into one corner of the couch, stretching out his hand so that Catherine would sit near him. I cannot say I wasn't amused by his intentional posturing. Catherine slipped her hands into her lap, and smiled broadly at Heero who perched on the edge of the seat nearest her. Letting his elbows balance on his knees. Matching Trowa play for play and stealing away Catherine's conversation.  
  
I knew that the actions were stiffly deliberate on Trowa's part. For Heero, if he understood the game, the movements were as natural as fixing her eyes on his own. For the entire evening, they laughed and shared stories. Occasionally, I would ask Trowa a question. To which I would get a narrow-eyed look.  
  
Catherine:  
  
I neglected Trowa horribly at first, and it wasn't a full day before I guiltily noticed.  
  
The rush of feeling accepted by Heero's conversation in person as well as in written word over flooded my common sense for a bit. Daydreaming during the morning meal, I found myself staring, having been wondering when he might first try to kiss me. How I might subtly grant him permission or suggest it. As I tried to shake those thoughts from my head, I noticed Trowa pushing his eggs around breakfast plate and felt in a moment terribly responsible.  
  
By monopolizing Heero's time, I had robbed my brother of his friend and left Trowa to Dorothy completely. And, knowing how they felt about each other, I had been quite rude. That day, Trowa and I were the first to the table, both being early risers. As children, we had shared many early meals and conversations.  
  
"Trowa?" I began, not certain what to say, but feeling the need to make amends. To retrieve the smiling, talkative brother that had met me at the door.  
  
His eyebrows lifted, glancing at me, then to his eggs again. "Did you sleep well?"  
  
"When we finally got to bed." I laughed, remembering the terrible reluctance to let Heero leave my sight. Having to nudge Trowa awake, since he'd fallen asleep at some point with a frown etched on his sleeping features. "Heero was telling me about how you played football together at school. I didn't know that you'd played on the same team once?"  
  
Trowa nodded.  
  
The answer came from another direction. "We had a visiting team come, so that the best of ours could play the best of theirs." Hearing our conversation, Heero chimed in. He put one hand on my shoulder in greeting before taking a seat near my own and examining the selection of foods. "It felt wonderful to put that bragging Peacecraft boy into his place, didn't it, Trowa?"  
  
Trowa nodded.  
  
Undisturbed, Heero turned back to me. The enthusiasm of the memory infiltrating his voice, as he spoke more quickly, "Your brother and I were able to dribble past the other team members one by one before Milliardo knew what had happened. It was splendid."  
  
"Boys and their games." Dorothy came in at that point.  
  
"Women have games too." Trowa challenged, speaking again. Watching Dorothy take a seat on his other side.  
  
"Yes, darling," Dorothy scolded, shaking her head, "But the games women play are sophisticated." The smile she gave him made me wonder, and increasingly, exactly what game Dorothy had in mind.  
  
Dorothy:  
  
After three days, Trowa gave up trying to find his sister separated from Heero. He wandered the halls, took long rides on one of the horses from the stable, and started to take walks in the evening. Catherine, to her credit, gave him equal time when they were all together, but it was not enough for him. More and more Trowa was no where to be found. With her maternal inclinations and love devoted to Mr. Yuy at that point, the picture of inevitable truth could not have been clearer in Mr. Barton's eyes.  
  
I caught him outside one afternoon. I had intended to go the flower garden for a walk. Trowa obviously on another of his solitary adventures.  
  
"Fancy seeing you again. You've been quite absent recently. Not trying for Catherine's affections any longer?" I asked, pulling on the brim of my hat to keep the newly returned spring sun out of my eyes.  
  
"Trying for her . . . what?" Trowa growled, his voice rumbling like April thunder. "My sister's love is not in doubt. But if she wants to waste all of her time with my friend," His lips sputtered, "then that is her decision."  
  
"And he is your friend? Isn't he?" I asked. He began to match my pace as I walked toward the garden anyway, almost as if he was not there.  
  
Demanding my attention, Trowa spoke in a clipped whisper, "Of course. Heero is a decent chap. I just don't think he's good enough for Catherine, that's all. He's an orphan after all and that inheritance from the Kushrenada estate was challenged before. Without Lady Une to defend it, who's to say it won't dissolve from beneath him?"  
  
"Judging people by their assets, are we?" I glanced at him. Trowa staring forward blindly. Simply reacting and expressing himself honestly for once.  
  
"No, I'm not. But Catherine could have any man she chooses."  
  
"And it certainly looks like she's choosing now." I laughed, "And it just drives you mad since she's not choosing you, is it?"  
  
"What does that have to do with it, dammit?" He kept walking faster, and, with my stride I kept even before, but this time he pulled ahead. "Of course, she's going to marry someone someday, just not him . . ."  
  
"And why not Heero?" I shake my head, amused by his reactions.  
  
He stepped in front of me, stopping me short and pushing his nose close to mine. His eyes a cross, envious green, "I don't approve."  
  
"You are such a beautiful hypocrite," I put up one hand to hide my smile, in the impression of a demureness not in my nature. "You throw aside family obligations, thoroughly despise your responsibilities and inheritance, and you're always challenging the expectations of others. Nevertheless, when it comes down to it, you behave just like the parents that you protest. You want to take Catherine and make your will and intentions hers." I used my fingers to push up on his chin, closing his mouth. Putting away his retort that he couldn't vocalize. "All of your petty problems and battles aside. Love is love. Your approval has very little to do with it."  
  
He followed me around the garden. Neither of us speaking. But I hardly expected him to share the feelings that comment must have raised. As we walked in silence, the flowers, grey in the spring gloom just days before, stood tall and bright. Promising aromas of a full summer.  
  
Interestingly enough, my words began to be truth as Trowa warmed to the idea. He watched them again, as if for the first time-watching Heero and Catherine sharing glances over a tilted cup, reading books to each other, playing a game of chess in front of the fire-he found whatever reassurances he was looking for and relaxed. Which was a good for him since the two of them hadn't ended the week before they had shared publicly their intentions for each other. Catherine planned on visiting the Kushrenada house with Heero as soon as he returned. And the visit sounded almost permanent as Catherine planned to assist Lady Une in all her affairs. To learn how to be the mistress of the Kushrenada estate. To take care of Heero through the inevitable things to come.  
  
Before going to the university, Trowa pulled Heero aside and, from the result of that conversation, Trowa must have given his consent. Not that Heero would have stopped pursuing Catherine without it.  
  
Those words I spoke were true, but not only for Heero and Catherine  
  
Truth: love is love. Approval has little to do with it.  
  
Because as much as I wanted to hurt him, and as little I approved of him: I loved Trowa Barton terribly.  
  
Not that I'd ever confess that feeling. Until he comes back to admit that I am at least one woman who has more wits about her than at least one man-- namely himself.  
  
I can be patient.  
  
The end.  
  
(I wanted to try something a little out of the ordinary. Moreover, this turned out much different than I expected. Being pleased with the first chapter, I intended to toss Catherine and Dorothy into this alternate world also--mostly in order to capture Trowa's reaction. It was a strange bit of coupling regardless, and I hope that given those variables that this half came along well enough to compliment the former. Now to see what mischief I can get into next . . . thank you for reading!) 


End file.
